One hundred letters and one purple shirt
by MrsThreepwood
Summary: Sherlock is lost in a case he can't solve on his own. And John tries to hide his true feelings towards the detective. All coming to an end, when Moriarty decides to fulfil his final plan. This will be some bigger Johnlock-installment, a lot of angst, hurt, comfort and eventually fluff and smut.
1. The letters

_A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in a couple of years, so I probably need some time to get into it again. Another flaw: English is not my mother-tongue. But I hope this little piece doesn't hurt your eyes too much and maybe you might even enjoy it a bit._

_It's only a one-shot, but maybe -in case of people liking it- I'll go on from this point._

* * *

The first cases of love and affection towards him were indeed difficult to deduce for the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

Molly and „the woman". Both of them took him some time to realize what was going on. Of course he knew by the book how bodies would react when people were in love: the dilated pupils, the sweaty hands, the higher heart rate. But coming to the conclusion someone actually liked _him –_ now that wasn't too easy even for him.

Then, after papers called him „The Reichenbach Hero", the letters began. Oh those letters. Only a few of them at first. But then dozens and suddenly hundreds of love letters from women of all ages. Young students, business women, ladies in his mother's age – they all admired him. And that was when he really got confused...

* * *

„John, I need your help. This is... this is ridiculous!" In a swift motion he threw a bunch of letters onto the table in front of his flatmate.

The doctor slowly raised his head. He managed to stay calm around Holmes most of the time and obviously the tall figure wasn't shooting the wall, so he just had a light interested in his errands.

„Go on, have a look. All those women declaring their love." Sherlock spat out in a rather disgusted manner. "At least I can use some of the envelops for experiments on how lipstick reacts with different kind of glue and paper." he mumbled more to himself than to Watson.

The blond man was still sitting down, picking up some letters and laughing at some points.

„And you need my help telling these ladies that you're not looking for your perfect wife at the moment?"

„Ah, don't be as foolish as them, John. I need your help figuring out WHY."

„Excuse me?" Now that got his interest. Did Sherlock just admit he needed help in figuring out something? The great Sherlock Holmes? The person solving cases in minutes - after Lestrade and the whole NSY were clueless even after weeks? HE needed help?

„I said, I need your help figuring out why. Why are they sending those letters to me?" Staring at the ceiling, Sherlock let himself drop onto his chair and rested his chin on top of his long delicate fingers.

"People know I'm a sociopath. A high functioning one but still. Besides..." he fumbled some crumbled pieces of paper out of his pocket and looked at them "I've read a lot, probably too much, of those fancy magazines and as far as I can tell, I'm not what people consider a handsome man these days."

The room was rather dark as the sun in December was going down early and it was already a late afternoon. John had to lean forward to catch a glimpse of the articles Sherlock was holding in his hands. And indeed, he obviously had cut out several pictures of male stars. Movie stars, musicians, even politicians that were dealt as "sexy". Now this was a very strange thing for the detective to do and John was still wondering what was going on, when Sherlock raised his voice again.

"I'm too tall, too thin, too pale, too freakish. So tell me, my dear Dr. Watson. What is it, people love about me so much they feel obliged to send me those letters?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and looking John directly into his eyes.

Without warning, John knew how Sherlock would feel in his mind palace. Hundreds, no thousands of images rushed through his mind. The first was the purple shirt. Oh the shirt- it's contrast to Sherlock's beautiful pale skin, how it clung perfectly to the slender figure, the way it placed emphasis on those stormy eyes of the detective.

Despite claiming he wasn't gay more than forty times in the last two years, John knew better. His several relationships to women made it clear to him. He wasn't bisexual. Probably he wasn't even homosexual. Most likely he was Sherlock-sexual.

In a couple of seconds he figured out the least-revealing answer to give.

"Helper syndrome."

Sherlock shifted in his chair, eyes still fixed on his friend. "Explain", he demanded without sounding rude.

A grin spread over John's face when he realized he could tell the truth without telling Sherlock... well "the truth". He cleared his throat and started explaining.

"Well, people see you in the media. They see your pictures, read the articles about you, might even start to wonder how the human being 'Sherlock Holmes' is like. Yes, yes Sherlock, there are still people out there thinking you're human.", the doctor added when his companion opened his mouth to say something.

"And then they discover you seem to be alone. You live with a former army doctor in a small flat, you have no girlfriend or wife and you're a sociopath. So what do people make of that? They might think you're wounded, you're looking for love but nobody wants you and that's why you're broken. Probably there's a scenario in their minds, where you focus on your cases because you don't want to deal with your loneliness. So they want to help you. They want to make you smile, prepare food for you since you're so thin, cuddle you – anything to make you feel better."

John ended his short speech, patiently waiting for a reply from Sherlock. Said man took some time to dwell on the things that had been laid out and after a couple of minutes came with an answer, the doctor certainly did not expect.

"Is that why you are staying with me? Because you pity me?"

Taking a deep breath, John stood up, looking at Sherlock. He put a bit of annoyance in this voice to conceal his real feelings. "Yes, Sherlock, that's why I'm living here. That and the fact I adore your purple shirt." With that, he left and got dressed for a late night shift at the hospital, leaving a confused detective behind.

But Sherlock wasn't confused about the letters any more. It was the look in John's eyes when he spoke about the purple shirt. Was there a hint of affection? Even lust? Now that was something he had to investigate...


	2. A simple fall

**Thanks for your reviews on the first chapter! I decided to turn this into a longer installment. :)  
Warning: Character death and spoilers for the end of Season 2.  
Hope you enjoy it, even if it's dark.**

* * *

„Stop it."

„John, I'm simply sitting here and..."

„No. You're Sherlock Holmes. You can't be 'simply sitting there'. You're observing. You're observing me and it's irritating. So, as I said before, stop it. Right. Now."

Sherlock was amused by his (wait, when did he start to think of John as _his_?) doctor's behaviour. After all he might have been right with his deductions. The way John looked at him, prepared tea, shared giggles over the most stupid things – that wasn't the normal behaviour for a friend. Or was it?

Of course he could have asked Mycroft but how should this kind of conversation start? "Oh well, brother, do your spies happen to have recorded any evidence that my blogger and flatmate Dr. John Hamish Watson is in love with me?". Maybe he should indeed ask Mycroft. The look on his brother's face would have been priceless at this point and one part of Sherlock was shouting to wrap himself in a sheet right now and wait for a black limousine to appear.

He softly chuckled at his own thoughts before addressing John again.

"You told me to become more human so don't get mad at me when I try. Maybe I'll be a better person if I observe the most caring human being." he added with a wink.

There. There it was again. That slight blush creeping up John's neck if only for a second.

In this very moment, Sherlock's phone rang. He had been bored for a couple of days and John was relieved when he caught a glimpse of the caller ID – maybe their flat would survive another week.

And indeed, their flat would. Their lives wouldn't.

Had John Watson known what Lestrade's "Get over here now." would mean for him and Sherlock, he would have crushed the phone into thousands of pieces before anyone of them could even think of answering the call.

But it was too late. The spider was already sitting in it's web, waiting for it's prey. Moriarty would destroy anything they had and he wouldn't stop before Holmes and his pet were dead or devastated.

Of course John had no idea of it, neither had Sherlock at this point. For sure they wouldn't have called a cab, huge grins all over their faces, ready to start a new adventure, if they had.

* * *

**A few weeks later**

Sherlock Holmes did realize a lot of things when he stood on the edge of that very particular roof.

First of all, he realized that he did have a heart – despite what he had claimed before. He did have a heart and it was torn into pieces right now.

Second, he realized he was able to cry. Of course he had cried before, he was a brilliant actor after all and some cased required him to play the wounded puppy. But this was real and those tears in his eyes felt a thousand times more painful than anything he ever experienced.

The last thing he realized though meant the most to him, while a few weeks ago he would have laughed at his own thoughts and deleted them from his memory.

He had a special chuckle reserved for John. This thought, though it seemed so pointless, so inane and futile at this moment, broke his heart completely. How had he not noticed this before? Why did it take two small statements to realize that there was more, much more between them than simply sharing 221b Baker Street?

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could".

Chuckle.

In this instant he knew, no matter what he or any other person in this world told him, John would never stop believing he was real.

He thought of all the times his (again _his_) doctor told him we was "brilliant", "amazing", "stunning" and suddenly he had the feeling, that those comments weren't meant to describe his deductive skills alone.

As soon as he saw the the man on a bicycle he was waiting for turn around the corner, Sherlock Holmes said the hardest words he ever had to say.

"Goodbye, John".

His phone flew across the roof, he spread his arms and fell. No jump, no shouting, no more attraction drawn to him than needed. A simple fall.

A simple fall that broke another man's heart beyond the point of repair.

* * *

John Watson did realize a lot of things when he looked up at the dark figure standing on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital.

First of all, he realized that he should have told him. A lot of people say they regret things but in this very moment, John knew what regret _really _meant. There were countless moments when he could have admitted there's more than friendship. That being "his blogger" wasn't enough. But he never did.

Second, he realized that Sherlock was able to show emotions and it shocked him more than anything else in his life. Though he couldn't see it, he could hear and feel the pain in his best friend's voice. Months after the fall, he would still be haunted by the feeling, that there was one single tear rolling down Sherlock's skin and that his was meant for him.

The last thing he realized though meant the most to him. After he was knocked down by some idiot on a bicycle, he stumbled over to the black haired figure lying motionless on the ground. And that's when he realized not only Sherlock's live has handed a few seconds ago. He could feel any will to live run out of his body as he watched the blood of his one and only true love pooling on the pavement.

A simple fall ended everything they had. One was dead, one was devastated. Just as Moriarty wanted them to be.


	3. The Five Stages of Grief

**A/N: This one is dedicated to the lovely RainyDays-and-DayDreams.  
I know that I'm quite mean to our beloved doctor at the moment. But comfort is on the way, though he will have to suffer a bit more. ;)  
Thanks a lot for reading and if someone found the time for a review, I'd be really happy.**

* * *

**The Five Stages of Grief**

**Denial**

"No."

A word so simple and yet so powerful.

"No."

The first word John muttered when Sherlock prepared to fall.

"No."

The only answer John gave when people tried to convince him Sherlock was dead.

No matter what people told him, no matter how often he visited his grave, no matter how much the images of Sherlock lying in a pool of blood had burned into his mind – John Watson was utterly convinced that his best friend had somehow escaped death and was still walking the earth.

With every fibre of his being he was denying the possibility of Sherlock being dead or that he was some kind of fake.

The first weeks after 'the fall' people were patient. They told John it's okay to still believe in Sherlock and his fairytales, that he'd come to his senses once he was out of shock, that after all he lost his best friend, even if he was a fake.

Then they grew impatient. The comments on his blog were cruel, as some people implied he was in cahoots with Sherlock and they thought of all of their cases together.

_You're just a fake like him._

_Stop pretending, John. You lying bastard._

_For a moment I even believed your blog. Then I found out how much bullshit is on here. No one could be as clever as you describe him. Good try though._

John deleted this kind of comments, day after day. He knew Sherlock was out there. And he knew _he _could be that clever.

**Anger**

Once again he was at Sherlock's grave. He didn't have any more tears to give, so this time he was shouting. Like a madmen, he spat out every insult crossing his mind.

"You freak. Bastard. Most annoying flatmate in the world. How could you do this to me? And WHY would you do this to me?  
Do you see me here? Do you enjoy having me broken? Do you like torturing me, you... you pompous arse?  
You know... you know when we first met and we sat in the cab and you said, people usually told you to piss off? Yeah, you know what? I should have too. I should have told you to piss off.

Because if I had, I had never fallen in love with you and I had never have to see you jump off that roof and I had never have my heart broken."

He stared at the grave. No answer. Somehow he still expected that dark marble stone to reply to all of his accusations, pleas and sobbed words. Sherlock could have done that. Sherlock could make marble speak.

**Bargaining**

There had to be another solution. Staring at all of Sherlock's belongings in 221B, John was sure there was probably a very simple solution to everything. Maybe he was the problem. Maybe he needed to go away and Sherlock would finally come back. Even if he couldn't have him – there were other people missing Sherlock too. And they certainly wouldn't miss John.

Mrs. Hudson slowly came up the stairs when he heard the rumbling noises in the flat.

"John? Dear? What are you doing there?"

"Packing. That's the solution. He needs space when he comes back and when I'm gone, he surely has some space here." John said with a sad smile on his face. "It's me or him and Mrs. Hudson – we both know who's the more valuable."

Jumpers and books were thrown into boxes, leaving the flat fairly empty. John admired how much 'sherlocky' the flat looked without his things disturbing the image.

Yes. This was right. When he was gone, Sherlock would definitely come back.

**Depression**

Harry sat on the side of his bed. These days, her visits were more frequent and the worry lines on her face deepened every time she saw John.

"I know we've never been really close. And I'm sorry for that, Johnny. I should have been there for you earlier. It's hard to lose the one you love. Yes, I know. It doesn't take a detective like him to see what you felt and probably still feel. But you need to get on with your life. You can't stay here forever."

The young woman, who looked a lot older from all the worrying she did in the last weeks, glanced around in the dark room. When he had cleared 221B from all the evidence of him ever living there, John moved into a small one-room apartment on a rather shady area of London. The rent was low though and he couldn't really afford any more with his small army pension.

There were empty take-out boxes piled up on the table which was a desk, dinner table and bedside cabinet at the same time. Harry felt nothing but pity for her brother and even more so, when he finally spoke up – for the first time in three weeks.

"It's pointless. He won't come back and I don't know what to do with my life. I might as well end it right here."

A back-breaking silence filled the room and made Harry want to throw up. After a few deep breaths she found enough confidence in her words to address her brother one last time for the day.

"You know where to find me if you want to talk. You have family and friends out there you know. Please don't be as selfish as he was. We need you. And we love you."

Slowly she stood up and took her coat. Harry had a look at her brother again – he just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes blank and without any spark of life.

"See you tomorrow, John" she said in a low voice before she left her brother. Alone and depressed in a life he didn't want to live any more.

**Acceptance**

Eventually, life did get better for John Watson.

Two years after the fall, he got a job. Nothing too fancy, just a few hours a day at a local clinic. He dealt with elderly people most of the time. There was no adventure in listening to 78 year old Mrs. Davis complain about the slight stiffness in her right hip for the third time this month. But adventure wasn't what he was looking for right now.

As soon as he had some money saved, the doctor moved into a nice new apartment with two bright rooms. Occasionally he would invite a woman for some funtime. Nothing too serious, he wasn't able to let someone into his heart yet. Probably he would never be able to do that again, but he told himself that he could at least enjoy the warmth of someone on a cold winter night.

John attended various social events. Birthdays, weddings, baby showers, now or then even enjoying a pint with Greg at the pub. He managed to smile genuinely and sometimes he even forgot who was responsible for him meeting Greg Lestrade in the first place.

Finally he came to peace, accepting the death of Sherlock. Forgetting about him as much as he was able to, locking away his feelings in the deepest and darkest corner of his mind, John felt free at long last.

* * *

That was until the Saturday exactly 957 days after 'the fall'. John opened his closet to sort out some old clothes. In the very back he found a suitcase he hadn't seen in a long while.

"Oh, must have forgotten to unpack you" he said to the inanimate object and opened it up. When he rummaged through a pile of old jumpers and books he realized the suitcase contained the stuff he first grabbed when he was leaving Baker Street. He was about to store it away, when he saw it. A small piece of fabric, just peeking out of a pocket in the suitcase. Not only a piece of fabric but a purple piece of fabric. John gently pulled at the corner, slowly revealing the whole shirt of Sherlock.

It hit him with full force and without a warning. A full mental breakdown.

* * *

29 hours, 17 calls and 13 texts later, Greg knocked at his door. There had to be something wrong with John, he wouldn't simply miss their weekly pint.

His knock went unanswered and as Greg turned slightly away from the door to try John's phone again, he heard it – low muffled sobs from inside the flat.

"John? Are you in there? You okay?" the DI asked hesitantly.  
More sobs.  
"John, please open the door, I can hear you and no matter what's going on, I'm here to help."

Even more sobs and a very low voice.  
"Pl...please...just g-go away."

"No John, I won't. And if you won't open the door, I'll call someone and this door will be opened up within seconds."

Shuffling noises were to be heard inside and a small _click _as John unlocked the door, followed by a _thud – _the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Greg slowly pushed the door open and realized with horror the condition of the living room.

Furniture was crushed into pieces, cushions torn apart and blood covered the walls in weird patterns. Though the patterns weren't so weird any more once Greg had a closer look at them. It was "Sherlock". "Sherlock" written over the walls. In blood.

And in the middle of this mess, he found him. John. Desperately clinging to a purple sheet, no a purple shirt. It didn't took him more than 2 seconds to realize who's shirt it was.

John looked up at him, terror in his eyes. "Help me" were the only words the former army doctor was able to mutter before he drifted off into unconsciousness.


	4. The return of Sherlock Holmes

**A/N:** Thanks for the favs, reviews and for following! That's what keeps me going, especially reviews. So any kind of comment is very welcome. Thanks again!

* * *

**71 days later**

The frying pan that landed with a 'thump' on Sherlock's right shoulder was totally reasonable. How else what one react, seeing a person who was dead for several years?

"Mrs. Hud... Mrs. Hudson! Listen to me! Would you please stop beating me with your cooking device for a second? … Please."

Holding the pan in front of her body, still ready to attack again, Mrs. Hudson looked up into those eyes she thought she'd never see again.

"Oh dear... it's really you, isn't it?", she almost whispered, slowly letting her pan-guard down. Then, the fragile elderly woman broke down into tears.

Sherlock fetched her right before she could hit the ground and put an arm around here for support.

"Let's get you seated." he said with a voice so soft, it was hard to imagine these words did really come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

As soon as his former landlady had calmed down a bit, he explained every detail of his journey over the past 3 years. How he did everything to protect her, Lestrade and John. The unnerving months of waiting until he finally got the text he was waiting for.

_It's safe. - MH_

The detective had rushed back to London as soon as he had read those very words and of course his first stop had to be 221B Baker Street.

He asked for a tea and even Mrs. Hudson couldn't stop herself from grinning when she replied: "You might have been dead, Sherlock, but I'm still _not your housekeeper!_" Of course he got his cuppa anyway.

Time flew by and occasionally they shared a laugh over some adventure Sherlock was talking about. That was, until deep lines of sorrow were shown on Mrs. Hudson's forehead.

"Sherlock, how was John today? I'm sure it must have been hard for you to see him... there."

The detective frowned, a mixture of horror and anticipation forming in his stomach.

"So he's at work then? I thought he might be here, though I must admit there were signs of him not living here anymore..."

"Oh dear... you have no idea, have you?" the older lady said. Her fingers were clenched around her cup and tears were visible in here eyes. "He's over at the Gordon Hospital."

"Since when does John deal with patients with psychiatric problems? Good for him though, he probably..."

He was stopped in the middle of his sentence, a shaking hand resting on his own.

"Sherlock. He's a patient there. John... he has some serious problems."

Without any further word's he jumped off the chair, grabbed his coat and ran out of the door. Mrs. Hudson would understand, he was sure of that. It took him only a few seconds to hail a cab.

"Gordon Hospital. And make it fast, there's no time for sightseeing here."

* * *

When he entered the hospital, it took people some time to recognize him. Curious glances at first, low murmurs "Isn't that him? But he was supposed to be dead" until the voices raised and a nurse cried out loud "Oh my god, that's really Sherlock Holmes! That sick bastard is here! Doctors!".

He simply stood there, a few feet from the reception, observing the scene. The hospital wasn't too big and the staff was probably underpaid. The nurses, mostly young women and a few men, had dark shadows under their eyes, their clothing was faded and the interior of the lobby could have used a touch up even years ago.

An elderly doctor made his way down the hallway, storming right towards Sherlock. He clearly had a higher position here and Sherlock addressed him when he was a couple of steps away.  
"I'm looking for Dr. John Watson. Where would I find him?"

The answer was harsh and full of hatred: "You'll leave. Right now. You won't get anywhere near this patient, so turn on your heel and walk right out of that door. If you won't, I'll make sure the next time there's a grave with your name on it, you won't return from the dead."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something when his phone rang. He had a look at the caller ID and sighed. Mycroft. Of course he had his spies on him again as soon as he sat a foot onto British ground.

When he answered the call, Sherlock was greeted by a simple command. "Pass the phone to the doctor you're arguing with." In any other circumstances, he would have argued with his brother or simply hang up. But this was different, this was about seeing John again and Sherlock knew his brother could be his only hope here. Without hesitation he handed the phone to the man in front of him. "It's for you, apparently."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "This better ain't any of your foul tricks, because if it is..." he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock before he raised the phone to his ear. "Dr. Irving speaking, who's... oh. Oh. Yes. I understand. Of course. I'm sorry."

The mobile was snapped shut before the elder man spoke through gritted teeth. "If you'd be so kind to follow me, Mr. Holmes. I'll lead you to Dr. Watson."

* * *

It was bad. It was way worse than anything Sherlock had imagined.

John sat on his bed in his all too-white and too-sterile room. Sherlock was told John did have some hallucinations in the past, so he gently and very carefully raised his voice. "John. It's me. Sherlock. Would you mind turning around and looking at me? Please, will you do this for me?"

The last question made the blond and way too thin man on the bed spin around.

"Why are you back? You haven't been here in weeks. I thought I was going to be okay. I...I thought after all I could finally go home. And now you're back and you're saying those bloody words asking me again to do something for you. Like I should keep your eyes fixed on you when you jumped off that FUCKING ROOFTOP and plunged to death."

Sherlock didn't move. He was lost for words and when he finally found the courage to open his mouth, John didn't let him the chance to say something.

"No. NO. Simply SHUT UP. I know you're not real. You're in my head. My very own 'Sherlucination'. You know how often you've been here? 53 times. 53 FUCKING times. And I've seen the tapes. Me arguing with NOTHING. Now you will tell me I'm not hallucinating, you'll tell me everything will be fine, that you're finally back for real any I will get angry and I will punch you, but of course you're not there, so I will only hit a wall or nothing at all. And I will break down and cry and doctors will come and give me some sedative. So fuck you. FUCK YOU."

After all those years he didn't imagine his former blogger would have still so much power in his fists. The blow to Sherlock's chin came without any warning and made him go down immediately. The detective sat on the floor, staring up in shock into the blue eyes of John, who returned the look in horror.

"Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I'm really going crazy now. Now I'm even feeling you and you're not disappearing after I punch you. This is great. Really great."

"JOHN." Sherlock used the desk to help himself come to his feet again. His jaw was slightly dislocated and he felt a small trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth. "Listen to me. I. Am. Real. I'm real and I'm alive and you were right. I could be that clever. And now I simply hope I'm somehow clever enough to fix you."

His mind was working on full speed now, trying to figure out what to do to show John he was real. Then Sherlock did something certainly nobody would have expected him to do – he pulled John into an awkward but still very comforting hug. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left, I'm sorry I didn't tell you why, I'm sorry I brought you... here."

He didn't get any reply but a lot of uncontrolled sobs at first. After a couple of minutes there was a broken voice, softly begging. "God, please. Please let this be real. I... can't… go on any more."

Both men spun around when a third voice filled the room. "Dr. Watson. This is real."

Dr. Irving was standing in the doorway, looking at his patient and the very unwelcome intruder. "We were informed by Mycroft Holmes that his brother is indeed alive and he has every right to visit you here. I know this is a big shock for me, so maybe you'd like to speak to your therapist. I could make room for you in her schedule any time you want." He spoke with a voice so soft and caring, it surprised Sherlock to no end. Some people really did know how to do their job after all. "Mr. Holmes. If you'd like to stay, we can arrange a bed for you. You brother informed us to turn off any camera in Dr. Watson's room and added, there would be no other surveillance for the two of you for tonight. I assume you've got a lot of talking to do."

"No. This chair there is fine for me, I don't need a bed." Sherlock looked up at the . "And... thank you."

With a sigh, the head of department closed the door and left the two men. He was right after all. There was a lot of talking to do.


	5. The Talk

**A/N: Thanks so much for hanging on so far! Here it is - "the talk". I'm still curious how the real reunion will be... but that's pretty much how I'd imagine the two of them to react.  
****Again: please review, I'm a sucker for that. Even more than for hurt!John.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**The Talk**

„When did you stop believing?

"Uh?"

"That I was alive. I know you couldn't believe I was dead in the first months, but, clearly, today you refused to spin your head around the idea I was real. Why? And when?"

John let out a long sigh. He was finally sitting on his bed again, after hours of pacing around the room, refusing to talk at all. After all what happened he was frustrated, mad, horrified, tired and ecstatic – all at the same time. When he finally agreed to open up, Sherlock was relieved at last. He got John propped up on some pillows and seated himself on the only chair available. To some point he did enjoy the awkward hug he gave John earlier, but he didn't want to strain his nerves with any more physical contact than needed.

Hesitant words found their way out of a sore throat.

"When you 'appeared' for the twenty-first time here. The doctors... they didn't know what to do. Clearly a bunch of idiots, even Anderson would shine as bright as the sun compared to these dull people. Whatever. They showed me some surveillance tapes. I saw it with my very own eyes. Me. Fighting, screaming. With nothing but an empty room. That's when I thought you'd never come back again. That you were really dead and I was the biggest idiot for believing in you for so long. I never thought you'd be a fake, though.

What about you? When did you decide to hurt me so bad? And why?", John added with a weak fake-smile.

These questions caught Sherlock off-guard. Of course he knew he had to explain some day but he thought his curious and admiring blogger would be rather interested in how he did it.

"I... Well, in fact, I never decided to hurt you. Of course I knew it would hurt you to some point when I decided to leave but it wasn't my intention at all. You. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. I had to appear dead for the three of you to survive. Snipers. Deadly snipers. There were 176 people involved – Moriarty clearly had every possibility covered – and it took Mycroft about three years to have the whole web destroyed. I couldn't even send a letter to you without risking anything. I'm sorry, John. I really am."

"Uhum. Okay. I think. You probably had your reasons."

"John. You would have been KILLED if I hadn't done what I did!", the detective said in an somewhat angry tone, though he intended to stay calm.

The broken blond man gazed up into Sherlock's eyes. "Well, I'd rather chosen death over the life without you."

Long pale fingers rubbed over oh-so-tired eyes and hollow cheeks.

"Again – I'm sorry. And you probably still know that I'm not a man of sentiments. Still not exactly my road. Yet, here I am. Apologizing."

"And you think that will fix things? Do you... do you really think you could just come back, and we'd share 221B again with Mrs. Hudson _not being our housekeeper_ and we'd go on solving crimes and it would be like one big happy end like in a fucking fairytale?"

"Yes."

The answer surprised Sherlock himself even more than John. He'd never thought of himself as a naïve person but in this case he clearly was. Three years were a long time after all but yet he had expected John to be the same person, with the same unconditioned friendship between them.

John stared at him in blank surprise. Did Sherlock really just simply answer his questions with a simple yes?

"John."

"Yes?"

"You're wounded, in fact you're broken."

"Yes."

"Any bad?"

"Very bad."

"Seen a lot of annoying things then. Flatmates shooting at walls."

"Well. Yes."

"Bit of body parts lying in a fridge, too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

They both knew where this was going. The memory of a very similar conversation was burned in either man's brain and none of them were surprised of John's answer.

"Oh god, yes."

* * *

There was still a lot of talking left to do. A hell lot of a talking. But things would get better eventually. And though neither of the two men made any attempt on talking about romantic feelings of any kind, they both sensed that they were way closer to each other than they'd ever been before.


	6. The five-patch-problem

**Hello guys! Sorry it took me so long to update but I was lost in a personal drama. Hope you enjoy this chapter, there's finally "the moment"! ;) **  
**If you would take some seconds to review, I would be so happy! Thanks in advance for re**ading :)

* * *

**The five-patch-problem**

4 months later

Slowly. They took things very slowly.

John stayed in the hospital for another week after Sherlock – the real one, not some fucked up hallucination – visited him for the first time. They did a lot of talking. About Moriarty and the 'final problem'. About their friendship. About 221B. Of course they would be flatmates again, there was no doubt after all, but they were both still nervous about it. About cases. Sherlock had announced his return to Lestrade as soon as possible and though it took a good amount of help from Mycroft to clear Sherlock's name, the DI was more than happy to know the consulting detective back in the game.

The first cases they took were merely worth getting dressed for – small robberies, a missing husband, bankers being threatened by former colleagues.

There was some case though, Sherlock hadn't solved yet, while he wondered about it for more than 3 years.

* * *

It was a chill summer night, when Sherlock texted his flatmate, trying not to move from his favourite spot on the sofa.

Need nicotine patches – SH

Two minutes, no answer.

Need them right now – SH

Another two minutes without an answer.

It's an emergency! - SH

Finally Sherlock heard some rumbling in the second bedroom before the door swung open and a very unhappy and sleep-drunken John appeared in the doorway.

"I was trying to sleep, you prick. What happened to your bloody patches anyway? I gave you three patches only a few hours ago!"

"They are still here", the younger man said and revealed his left arm to show the three patches on him as a proof. "But you don't understand, John."

"I understand that you have an addiction and need to learn how to buy patches on your own..."

"No, John. You don't understand. This is a five patch problem."

"Wait, what? That's... wow, that's new.", John mumbled and sat down on his chair, eyes gazing over some books on the coffee-table. "What is it about? Moriarty? There can be hardly anything like the whole..."

He was cut off by Sherlock. "No John. It's... it's about you."

"ME? What the hell did I do now? Did I move your precious bodyparts onto the wrong shelf in the fridge?"

"No. Well, actually you did but that's not the point. Why are you here, John? Not today but at all. I've seen your records about the time when I was absent. You did make a decent living with your job at the clinic so you can't be simply looking for a cheap flat. Though it does seem to be a fact that cases thrill and enlighten you, it wouldn't be enough of a reward for dealing with me. There has to be something else then, after all I've put you through."

While he spoke, Sherlock rose from the sofa and moved over to stand directly in front of and above John. Said man simply stared at his friend, curious where this conversation would end.

"Tell me what this is all about. You, staying with me. I'm certainly not the most pleasant man to share a flat with and I've been thinking for weeks now. You know I'm quite an idiot when it comes to sentiments. So tell me or go get me some patches."

John cringed in his chair, a little more with every word coming from the mouth of his friend. He's had enough. Enough of hiding, pushing away the unwanted feelings, trying to assure everyone he's as straight as someone can be.

"Oh my god, Sherlock. You can't be serious. Just.. just _think_ about it. Everyone has figured it out now! Mrs. Hudson knows for sure, Greg has probably the right idea, hell, even _Angelo knew_. He knew on the first day we met! And I wouldn't be surprised if Anderson has wrapped his mind around it as well."

"John, I have no idea what you're... oh. OH. Now that's... oh. Seriously? Like the woman?", Sherlock asked. He was baffled by the sudden outburst of his 'pal', though now things did indeed start to make sense.

"No. I'm not that madly in love with you and no, I don't have a lock screen especially designed for you. But yes, I do like you more than a friend should. And I'd be glad if you'd move since I want to get out right _now._"

John's nerves were all on edge, his fingers slightly trembling and in his mind he was already making plans where to live in the next weeks. After all, you can't tell a sociopath you like him that much.

Sherlock on the other hand looked at him like a kicked puppy.

"Why would you want to get out now? We haven't even set the rules. I mean, that's what people do when they enter a new relationship, they set rules, right?"

"Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about now? I just told you, that I like you _very much_ and you -"

"Shh. I'm thinking. We'll use your bedroom for funtime. I know you're rather loud during sex and I don't want Mrs. Hudson to be in shock. Well, not because of us having sex. We can turn my bedroom into a lab then, making the kitchen more usable for actual cooking. Oh, and I don't want you to date other people. I'm not too eager sharing you with someone."

"Wait. Wait wait wait. Are you... are you implying that you... kind of... like me... as well?"

"Oh don't be that oblivious! Of course I do. I just haven't thought of the possibility of you liking me as well. After all, you've said you're not gay so many times, I started to believe it as well. Now what you help me moving my stuff into your room? You know I like to get things done", Sherlock said with a smile on his face and held a hand out to help the other man up. John grabbed the offered hand and stood up hesitantly.

"You know, Sherlock, it's actually a common practice to ask the other person whether a serious relationship is favoured _before_ you start making plans of rearranging the rooms of a flat..." John said in a low voice, before placing a short, sweet and almost innocent kiss on Sherlock's perfect lips. "But then, you're not a common human being at all."


	7. The First Date

**Thanks for hanging on guys, welcome to fluff-world!**

**I'm so thankful for everyone who reads and comments, please keep it up :)**

* * *

**The first date**

13 seconds later

"John?"

"Yes?"

"You just kissed me."

"Well, that's what people do when they want to show affection... Not good?"

"No, quite the contrary. It was surprisingly... nice. Wanna do it again?"

John chuckled and placed another kiss on Sherlock's lips. He didn't need to be a brilliant consulting detective to feel the man in front of him had probably very little experience in kissing, but that was okay for him after all. This wasn't about wild passionate kisses, making out on a date or amazing sex after a night out -though he definitely planned on doing these things as well -, this was about a deep connection between him and Sherlock and there was no way the sloppy way his friend (_Boyfriend? Lover? Partner?) _kissed back could ruin that. There would be time to practise anyway.

Suddenly felt a warm hand on his chest, gently pushing him away. He was surprised about this gesture, after all it was Sherlock asking for another kiss, wasn't it? His stomach plunged and deep lines of worry grew on his face.

"John, don't pull that face. I liked it, I really did. But we need to talk. You might have noticed I'm not that much of an experienced man when it comes to sentiments or relationships. I know you are very experienced though and as much as you tried to hide it, of course I already deduced you had a shag with at least four men when we were living together. Nothing to be ashamed of.

But I have no idea how to do... things... to you and it will probably take some time to adjust. You know I learn very quickly but do you think you can wait some weeks till it gets perfect? Between you and me."

"Shut up, Sherlock. It already is perfect. Has always been, will always be. Well, except for the part when you left me for some years and I nearly died from grief. But after all we've gone through, this is all I want", John said gesturing around. "It's us solving cases, you shooting the walls, me blogging about it. I'd love to go on a date sometimes and hell, I definitely WILL find a way to make love to your cheekbones. But there's nothing more I ask for than you being the brilliant, caring, infuriating, pompous arse Sherlock Holmes you've always been."

Silence. For the first time in years, maybe the first time ever, Sherlock had nothing to say. He was impressed, bewildered and above all almost moved to tears by the shorter man's words. Thousands of thoughts crossed his mind but nothing was worthy enough to be spoken out aloud.

Yes, he did had a huge ego and he was aware of his brilliance. But he was also aware of his flaws and the thought that of all people, the great John Hamish Watson had chosen to love him, was too much for him to comprehend.

"John... I... uh. Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me for loving you, I do that on a voluntary basis. But... you're welcome."

An awkward moment rose when neither of both men knew what to do. Finally, after shuffling around for a good minute, Sherlock found his confidence again.

"So, wanna go out? I heard Angelo got some new wines today and I'm sure he'd love to set up a nice candlelight dinner for us.", the tall man said chuckling.

"Sure, just let me change for some nicer clothes. And probably you don't want to wear that robe of yours for our first date."

Fourteen minutes and 53 seconds later, John entered the living room again and his jaw dropped. He himself picked out a pair of dark blue jeans and a blue and white striped shirt, that really flattered his figure. Even years after he ended his army career he still worked out a couple of days each week and suddenly he felt the need to show off the results of his training. But it was the sight of Sherlock that added a sparkle to his eyes.

His friend stood in the middle of the room, looking somewhat nervous. Those incredibly long legs were clad in black dress pants and black polished leather shoes made even the lowest part of Sherlock's body look great. As amazing as this was, it was nothing compared to the upper half of the detective. His slim upper body was accented perfectly by nothing less than a purple shirt. _That _purple shirt. Though his hair had clearly been combed it was still the curly mess John loved that much.

"Wow. You're looking amazing. Wow."

"I always had the feeling you had a thing for this shirt", Sherlock said with a shy smile on his face.

A few minutes later they arrived at Angelo's.

"Ahhh, Mr. Holmes and his date. Please be my guests, everything's on the house today! And a nice bottle of wine, eh?" The chubby man rushed off and came back with said bottle of wine and – of course – a candle.

"You are looking so great, such a cute couple. Here, have a romantic evening. No better place to be on a date than at Angelo's!" he said, smiling all over his face before he lid the candle and filled the two glasses on the table with a smooth red wine.

"I guess you're right, Angelo.", the detective mumbled, his eyes locked on John. It was this moment, Sherlock decided to be brave. He almost jumped over the table and kissed his now-definitely-not-not-his-date on the lips. It was a rough, short and imperfect kiss. But it still set silence to the whole restaurant for a few seconds, before people lost interest and paid attention to their meals again.

For a short moment, Angelo was in shock, but it only lasted for seconds. The most honest and widest grin possible spread on his face.

"I knew. You see, Angelo always knows. I'll leave you alone now. Eat, eat and drink as much as you want!" With that he rushed off, leaving the new couple at their usual table.

John looked surprised but soon started grinning as well. He raised his glass and cleared his throat.

"To us. The weirdest couple London will ever see."

"To us. The best weirdest couple the whole world will ever see.", Sherlock added before clinking glasses.

They'd known each other for years, but their story had just begun.


	8. A freak and his blogger

**Sorry it took me so long to add another chapter, guys! I'm thankful for everyone who follows or favourites this one, another story of mine or me as an author. There were some personal problems, but now I'm back. ;)**

* * *

People always thought they were 'gay for each other'. But when Sherlock and John made clear, that they indeed were, there was a shock wave going through London.

* * *

Like all important things, it all started with a case, two months after their first date. A body was found near the Thames and forensics were puzzled: the woman, a nice young lady in her early 20s named Gloria Jacobs, must have been in the water for at least 7 days to be in the condition she was now. Dead, obviously, but also quite badly composed. That wouldn't be alarming – if there wasn't video footage showing her in a coffee shop only 24 hours ago.

When Sherlock and John entered the crime scene, the usual suspects were already awaiting them. Sgt. Donovan eyed the couple – though she had no idea of them being one yet – with her usual mixture of disgust and mistrust when she shouted back to Lestrade "Freak's arrived. And his little friend as well."

John's face grew dark when he heard those words. He'd always hated it when someone called Sherlock a freak, but now it was almost unbearable for him. Without giving Donovan another look, he stomped away furiously, leaving a puzzled Sherlock behind. Said man followed suit and greeted Lestrade. "Show me."

"Hello Mr. Holmes. Yes, I'm fine. It's a pleasure to see you."

"No time for smalltalk, show me the video footage."

After all those years, Lestrade was finally used to Sherlock's behaviour and handed him a tablet with clips from different angles. Sherlock watched them all, taking in every tiny detail in the process.

He gave back the tablet and swirled around, reaching the body in a few long strides. When he knelt down, John joined his side.

"Anything interesting yet?", the doctor asked.

"Almost solved it, just gotta take another look at the feet.", Sherlock answered as he twisted and examined the victim's left hand. In a low voice he added: "What was wrong with you? With Donovan, I mean? You okay, John?"

They weren't the type for nicknames. Once they've tried it, but naming each other 'love' or 'sweetheart' just made them giggle. They settled for John and Sherlock. That's what they've always been.

"It's... nothing. Just not in the best mood today. What about her feet?"

"The hallux valgus, John. Don't you see it?"

"Yes, but what...?"

Before he could finish, Sherlock jumped up.

"This", he pointed at the body, "is definitely not Gloria Jacobs."

Anderson let out an annoyed sigh. "Oh come on, she clearly is. The id was found in her pocket, blood sample matches as well and please, just look at her."

"That what I DID. Maybe you should get some glasses, Anderson. I mean. Look. Really LOOK at her and at the video footage. In the video she holds her smartphone in her right hand before putting it away when she placed an order. She gets the cup – with her right hand. When she leaves, guess which hand she uses to wave goodbye? Oh, you got it – her right hand. Clearly right handed, her movements are way to fluid and instinctive to be faked. Now look at the body we have here. Look at the bones and tendons in her hands. Left side's clearly more used than the right one – this lady is obviously left handed. And her feet. How could you possibly miss her feet? She has a huge hallux valgus, on both sides. The woman in the video? She's wearing tight pumps – there is no way a woman with deformed feet like the body has could walk in this kind of shoes! You're looking for another person. Probably she was adopted, maybe there's a twin out there and..."

"Oh, our freak has solved the puzzle? Time to go home then.", Donovan cut Sherlock's deductions off and snorted.

That was enough for John Watson. He clenched his fists, containing himself from punching the young sergeant.

"One more word, just ONE more word out of your filthy mouth and I swear, there will be a second body on the beach within three seconds", he spat out between gritted teeth.

"John, calm down, it's okay", Sherlock tried to calm his friend down.

"No. NO. It's not okay. It's not okay for that... for that _person _to call you a freak. You're the most amazing, brilliant and loveable person I know and there's absolutely no way I could accept someone insulting you for simply being you."

"John, people can hear you, you might want to stop here..."

"I. Don't. Care. I'm not afraid, Sherlock. I'm not afraid of them knowing what's going on between us. Why should I? Do you think Anderson could be more disgusted of us?" he added, before he pulled Sherlock in for a sloppy but feverish kiss without a warning. Seconds later, John pulled away, looking into these intoxicating stormy eyes. "Come home with me. Now.", he growled and tugged at Sherlock's coat.

Without saying goodbye to any of the members of the NSY, the two of them walked away.

Lestrade's jaw dropped when he finally realized what he had just witnessed.

"Every time I think I now him, he comes up with even more absurd things to do...", he said more to himself. Then he raised his voice. "You've heard him. Check Ms. Jacobs' background. Birth certificate, parents, siblings, school years – I want everything on my desk until tomorrow morning."

His voice was harsh and commanding. But even D.I. Lestrade couldn't suppress a small grin, when he saw Sherlock reaching for John's hand as the couple walked away. They were his friends after all and he was happy they finally found each other the way it was meant to be.


	9. The letters (again)

**A/N: **I know I've promised smut, but to keep the rating a T, I decided to write an additional story, set between chapter 8 and 9 of this one.

Thanks for everyone who stuck with this fic to the end, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!

* * *

**The letters (again)**

**Three years later**

Their relationship had kind of started with the help of a bunch of letters – of course it had to end with them as well.

The day had been exceptional warm for a typical February in London, so as the last beams of the sun hit the living room of 221b, John had tossed his Jumper aside and worked on the remaining letters simply wearing a checked shirt.

Tons of envelops were piling on the small table, 142 to be exactly. They came in a deep shade of purple – John had insisted to get them in this particular colour – and 91 of them already had a name and address on them.

"Sherlock, I could still use some help over here."

"You wanted the addresses to be written by hand – you do it by yourself, John."

"But..."

"Shh. Still composing right here."

Which was true. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, swaying around to some music in his head. Now and then John would hear him play a short part, on a few occasions even the whole piece Sherlock had composed so far. It was a beautiful tune, slow but full of joy. Of course this had to be Sherlock's task, he would have never accepted some already existing music for their first dance. And John had to admit, he was a tad proud to marry a brilliant man like Mr. Holmes in a few weeks.

Two hours later, all envelops were ready to hit the letterboxes of all of their friends, close colleagues and family members. It didn't take them long to decide who would have to be best man and bridesmaid. Yes, there was a bridesmaid. For a short amount time, Sherlock had even considered wearing a dress – just to mess with Mycroft. But thinking of the way John looked at him whenever he wore a suit, Sherlock soon settled for him being the "bride" staying an inside joke.

Of course Greg Lestrade had to be the best man – he was a man and he was good at it, after all. And there was no way any other woman could be the bridesmaid than their beloved Mrs. Hudson.

Said woman squeed when she heard about the wedding and almost fainted when Sherlock announced which role she had at their ceremony. Greg had simply hugged the two of them and dragged them into a nearby pub.

"You do realize that's one of the last things we do as a normal couple? I mean, before becoming a married one.", John asked as he put all the invitations into his backpack.

"Of course I do. But what's so special about it? We'll have a little party and things will be back to normal a few days later."

"Oh come on, Sherlock. Don't act like this doesn't mean anything to you. Maybe you've deleted it – but I was there when I proposed to you and I've seen your reaction."

* * *

Oh yes, the reaction of Sherlock Holmes when his blogger proposed to him was quite extraordinary. With a lot of help from Molly, Greg and pretty much the whole NSY, John had managed to fake a case. Triple homicide but only the heads of the victims, all of them women, had been found. In addition, the 'killer' had left clues in the style of old fairytales. It took Sherlock two days to deduce everything and in the morning he informed John about the case.

"I know where she is hiding at the moment. The murderer is clearly a woman. All leads down to the old printing plant, guess what was the last thing printed there? A book with fairytales. Maybe there are still some of the sharp blades to cut the paper. You could easily decapitate a human being with them. I'll head there in the afternoon, mind to join me?"

"Would love to, sharp blades sound wonderful. But I'm on clinic duty today, so you gotta catch this one on your own. Just be careful, Sherlock."

Of course John had his day off, but he got to manage some things first. Mycroft had an eye on Sherlock all day (or rather a few dozens of camera eyes) and informed John as soon as his brother made his way to the abandoned factory.

When Sherlock entered the building, he could smell something had been in there in the last couple of days.

John stood on the far end of the huge main room, partly hiding behind a big press and disguised his voice to sound like a young man.

"Oh, the brilliant Mr. Holmes has arrived. So you've come to the right conclusion."

"Wha... you're not supposed to be a man. Show yourself. I want to see you. Stop hiding behind those little fairytales.", a slightly baffled Sherlock answered.

"Fairytales. They're are nice thing, aren't they. So sweet and innocent. Do you know how most of them end, Mr. Holmes?", John said as he slowly emerged from his hide-out, still staying in the shadows though.

"Yes, of course. 'And they lived happily ever after.' But what... oh. Oh you're devastated aren't you? Did they turn you down? The women? Did they leave you in front of the altar? Or did they just have the misfortune of resembling someone who turned you down?"

"Not exactly.", John said, now stepping into the light so Sherlock could see him. There was no point in still using another voice as well. "In fact, I've never asked anyone to marry me. Well, up to now..."

It was so much fun for John to see the emotions on Sherlock's face in that exact moment. Thousands of thoughts were visibly running through the detectives mind, bouncing from "Oh god, John's a killer" to "What the bloody hell is he doing here?" and finally to "Oh my god, he fooled me and now he's going to..."

John smiled broadly as he walked towards Sherlock.

"Yes, you're right. Indeed I'm going to ask you that question."

When he reached Sherlock, the ex-soldier dropped onto his knee, pulling a small box out of his jacket.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes – would you do me the honour to marry me and live happily ever after with me?", John asked and held the open box out for Sherlock to see. A simple silver ring was sitting in the soft black velvet, reflecting the last sunlight of the day.

Of course John had played out various possible scenarios in his head. Sherlock running away, Sherlock simply saying yes and going on like nothing has happened, Sherlock shouting at John for having such a stupid idea,... but he had never thought of what really followed his proposal.

Sherlock slumped down onto his knees and nearly tackled John into an embrace, grabbing the box with the ring with his left hand. "I have to admit, you're way more creative and clever as I thought, John." he said between small sobs. Wait? He was sobbing? "Yes, of course I want to marry you!" was the final answer to John's question and with slightly shaking hands, the doctor put the ring onto the long and delicate finger of his now-fiancé.

* * *

A shy grin spread on Sherlock's face as he put his violin down.

"You're right John. I'd simply prefer other people not to note this side of me. There will probably less cases if people don't see the rational, cold-hearted and mysterious detective in me any more."

**71 days later**

Of course all the guests noticed how emotional Sherlock Holmes could be on the day of wedding. He was everything, but nothing near cold-hearted this day.

Most of the invited persons actually attended – of course, who would not want to see a wedding like that? Even Mycroft was there in person to hand over a present (which was checked for hidden surveillance devices by Sherlock) and to congratulate the newly-weds.

All eyes were fixed on the couple as they read their wedding vows before the long-awaited words were spoken by both men.

"I do."

Their relationship had ended in some way, but marriage had just begun. And boy, that was an adventure on its own.


End file.
